


The Weather Is Never Boring

by Zagzagael



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zagzagael/pseuds/Zagzagael





	The Weather Is Never Boring

There was never any sort of warning before the storm that was House hit. Wilson’s office door would fly open and the man would just tornado into the small space, all long legs, long arms, that cane. And he would have to mentally tally his heartbeats while taking deep breaths and keeping his eyes on his work. Or, out of the corner of his eye, he would glimpse the dark cloud movement of the diagnostician clearing the short wall and stamping towards the glass deck door while he placed both his hands palm down on his desktop and remembered to breathe. House could catch him unawares and off-guard in his own office, in House’s office, in the elevator, in the men’s room, in the locker room, in the parking lot, in the cafeteria, even in his hotel room, the corridor, the downstairs bar. Wilson considered him a centripetal force, his own magnetosphere, and he had no protection, no respite from this personal microclimate.

And lately he had begun to ask himself if he wanted shelter from that storm.

He had begun a tally sheet, in an empty square on his desktop calendar. One hatch mark, two, three, four, cross them all out for five, begin again. He was keeping count of House’s tantrums, his dramatic entrances, his quieter appearances, the squalls, the sheer force of the man. It was Friday and Wilson was counting the black marks, standing while sipping at a mango smoothie. Seventeen. In five days time, House had blown into his office seventeen times. It seemed preposterous, but there was no denying the tally. Slowly, he reached down and traced the marks with his finger. The back door opened with a quiet snick. He jostled a pen free from the pen cup and drew a quick line beside the others. He didn’t even have to look up.

“Hello, House,” he said, and absently held out the smoothie.

House took it from him and settled his long, lanky body down on the small settee, slurping the drink down to the dregs then attempting a rim shot into the garbage. The Styrofoam cup hit the edge of the basket, the plastic lid and straw went flying and the vaguely orange-pink liquid splattered down the front of the desk.

Wilson sighed and shook his head; he bent and wiped at the drips with a Kleenex, then picked up the cup and lid and dropped everything into the basket. “Thanks.”

“No,” House said and pointed at him, “thank you.”

The oncologist leaned back on the front of the desk, ankles crossed, hands on the edges at his side. “I have a date tonight, so no, we can’t hang out.”

“I don’t want to hang out with you.” House rolled his eyes. “Boring.”

Wilson nodded. “Right.”

House cradled his bad leg up higher onto the back of the sofa, then crossed his hands behind his head. “What’s that mean? Right?”

“It means, right, you think I’m boring. Right.”

A quick look of confusion skirted across House’s handsome face. Then he frowned. “Damn right. You’re boring as hell.”

Wilson smiled and nodded again. “Right. I’m boring. Boring as hell, even.”

House looked over at him, eyes narrowed. “This conversation is boring. Proof of your boring-ness.” House stood, wobbly, and reached for his cane. “And here’s me leaving, before I get bored to tears. Or, even," he said, leaning into his cane, towards the other man, "to death.” He turned away.

“You don’t think I’m boring, House.” Wilson’s voice was a soft surration, the sound stilling House's hand on the door. He bent his head, Wilson watched the masculine profile outlined against the early evening sky, saw the twitch in the crooked lips settle into a smirk and he breathed in hard.

“Oh, but I do, James. Infinitely and forever boring.” He pushed open the door and walked out into the warm summer air.

In two steps, Wilson caught the swinging door and was outside, his hands on House’s shoulder, on his arm, around his elbow, turning him hard, prepared for the weight of him as he rushed him off balance and against the brick wall of the building. House seemed prepared, too, lowering his head away from the impact, cane clattering, both hands coming up to grab hard at Wilson’s suit coat lapels. He pulled fiercely at the material of the coat, bringing the smaller man up and against him, both of them exhaling as their chests hit. Then he had his long-fingered hands on Wilson’s face, thumbs pressing at the corners of his mouth, tilting his face up as he lowered his own.

Wilson grabbed at House’s shoulders, then had a hand at the back of his head, in the short curls there, fingers and thumb splayed wide across his neck. He felt House’s hands cupping his jaw, fingertips brushing his lips. He lifted his mouth, closed his eyes and kissed him fully. House’s hands held him still, fingers ghosting over his cheekbones. Their lips parted open, their mouths hungry, both tongues deep inside, against teeth, against their own names being called out, called to, in the other one’s voice.

House kissed a hot line across Wilson’s lower lip, over his cheek, up to his brow, then brought his forehead down to his. Eyes drifting closed, the tip of his tongue against his upper lip, he breathed out in a long gasping exhalation.

Wilson pulled back slightly and looked up into House’s slitted gaze. “What did you just say?” he asked, brows furrowing over his dark eyes.

“I said, still boring. Despite this or in spite of this, you’re still boring.” He brushed his lips across Wilson’s mouth, watching, heart hammering, as the other man’s eyelids shuddered closed. “As hell. Boring. As. Hell. And I’m not hanging out with you tonight.”


End file.
